


History was never on our side

by Fireway



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, I'm not going to lie this isn't a gendrya fic, So if you're here for gendrya this isn't the place for you, This is pure cold angst and I'm actually sorry I wrote this, Will have chapter 2 but that will be angst as well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-31 15:22:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20117278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fireway/pseuds/Fireway
Summary: Gendry's years after Arya left. History repeating, almost.





	History was never on our side

The sails on Arya Stark’s ship were grey. The colours she flew were the Stark ones, the sigil carved into the front of the ship meant for a long journey.

Gendry wondered, how long would it be – and if she’d return. The wind snuck under his black cloak, making the man shiver slightly – lordly clothes weren’t always as practical as ones made for lowborns, made to keep the cold out and to be used for years. Gendry felt like he was wearing a stranger’s clothes.

Arya had barely spoken to Gendry after he proposed – she left to King’s Landing without a word, and for a moment Gendry thought she’d come back to him once she survived the hell that was the destruction of the capital.

Yet she didn’t – as they voted for the next ruler of Westeros, his blue eyes were on her, waiting her to look back; she didn’t. Arya Stark kept her word, she did not want him anymore.

Gendry wondered if she had ever wanted _him_, anyway. Maybe he was just there at the right time. If he hadn’t been in the forge, maybe Arya would have gone to a different lad. Maybe the one ser Brienne kept around, or some lucky soldier.

He never got his answer, as the spare words exchanged between them were cold, official; when Gendry went to ask her if she was okay after the battle of King’s Landing, she had asked if he’d be attending the trial of Jon as a lord. When Gendry went to ask if she needed anything, any new weapons, all he got was a tiny shake of her head and then a question if he planned to have trade with North – he could ask Sansa when she came to attend the trial. She dodged every question, every word, kept Gendry away.

After the trial, Gendry went to Arya, trying to set things straight, but all he got was Arya telling him to talk with Bran as soon as possible so he could set off to Storm’s End – the stormfolk had been without a lord for too long. It had broken Gendry’s heart; it was almost as if Arya told him to get lost.

He had lost Arya too many times, and now Arya wanted to lose him without any hesitation.

When Gendry realized this, he decided to not bother Arya anymore. They shared a few official meals with the other lords and king, deciding on things Gendry knew nothing about, they once met in the docks as they were rebuilt, and only exchanged greetings, barely even asking how the other was, blue and grey never meeting.

The next time Gendry saw Arya was when she was leaving Westeros. Again.

King Bran had sent him a raven to inform him of this, as he stated he “knew the relations Gendry and his sister shared”. Gendry didn’t want to know what exactly he meant.

The morning of setting sail came, and as Gendry was getting dressed, for a moment he wondered if he should just pack his ownings and volunteer to be in Arya’s crew – who wouldn’t need a skilled blacksmith? And, well, at least he knew how to row.

Yet Gendry left with just the clothes Davos had gotten tailored for him; black cloak, black vest and a shirt, black breeches and boots. He had a lot of other clothes too, of course – bright yellows, muted mustard shades and some brown leather ones, but none of them really fit him right now; for years his skin was stained black with dirt and coal, bright yellows made him think of everything he wasn’t (_yet_, Davos would always correct). And either way, when Gendry left to see Arya sail away, it felt like all black would be fitting; it was what people wore to funerals.

And so he stood there, watching with the Stark siblings and other lords and ladies as Arya the Springbringer, Slayer of Nightking, Hero of Winterfell, the Little Wolf, the Avenger of Red Wedding, sailed away to get another title as the one who discovered what lies beyond the western horizon. Gendry had heard them all – and yet he knew there was one title Arya would never claim as her own; Lady of… Well, anything, if Gendry had to take a guess.

Gendry wondered if she’d come back the Arya of Western Seas or Arya, the lost hero. 

The ride to Storm’s End didn’t take long – years later as Gendry recalled sitting in the saddle of the black mare, it was all a blur. He was anxious, stressed, grieving. He remembered thinking if any of this was worth it; it wasn’t with Arya, but whenever he voiced his thoughts to Davos, he’d insist Gendry would be a great lord, with or without Arya; he was just, he was strong, he was the true heir.

Laughable, really. If he was so just and strong, why was it that Arya wanted to go?

Gendry settled in Storm’s End slowly and clumsily; he had no idea what he was supposed to do, and was sure he would be usurped in a matter of moons.

Usurper never came, to Gendry’s dismay. Davos kept sending him ravens from King’s Landing, and the maester of Storm’s End was a bit too helpful; it was no wonder that with those things combined and Gendry’s empathy for the lowborn, he soon became a loved lord of Storm’s End, though many knew his rage shook the earth like the thunder rolling over the castle. Rage that some of the lords that were abusing their power heard loud and clear, like a storm that ripped trees up from the ground, roots sticking up from the ground like a sick image of a man dying.

Yes, Gendry was angry; the first few moons he grieved, staring out to the sea, waiting for the grey sails to be seen in the eastern horizon. Arya had to come back. She had to.

Then the eight moons doubled, and Gendry started to realize she wasn’t coming back. It was a slap in the face as it hit him one evening when he was walking the docs, listening to the dornish salesman talk about the fish trade he wanted to start in Stormlands. Gendry had to excuse himself out of the conversation as he finally realized it probably was the last time he saw Arya, as she boarded her ship to sail to the unknown.

If the ride to Storm’s End for the first time was blurry, it had nothing on the following moons Gendry went through; it was like the thickest mist around his memories – sure, he remembered how he taught the little boys to smith a few times, and he remembered Davos coming to visit him. He remembered the golden-haired maiden, whose father was at the feast Gendry held. He remembered her soft hands traveling up his thigh under the table, and he remembered leaving early, disgusted; it wasn’t the first time someone tried to bed Gendry, just hoping to carry his child and shackle him to marriage; it was widely known Gendry was a bastard and had vowed he would never father a single bastard – he was not his father.

18 moons had passed since Gendry last saw Arya. The sun was setting, casting golden light to the courtyard beneath the single, high tower. There was nothing ordinary about it; Gendry had planned to do some blacksmithing to ease his stress of spending most of the day with a visiting lord.

Indeed, Gendry had had a plan.

But it changed as soon as he felt an insisting hand resting on his crotch, and as he turned his blurry vision to the maid next to him, Gendry felt himself gasp – for a moment, he was sure it was Arya.

But it wasn’t; the girl was all soft skin and pouty lips as Gendry tried to shove her away in his drunkenness, trying not to look at the dark brown curls of the girls too long, trying to ignore how the leather dress reminded him of --

Gendry felt himself groan; fuck it. She was close enough to Arya.

Eighteen moons later, a maid was behind the castle doors, hands on her belly – “I carry Lord Baratheon’s babe” she had said, had insisted the child was of Baratheon blood.

Gendry ordered to close the gates – it was the fourth maid claiming to have his babe in her belly.

Four, though those were just the unlucky ones; as Gendry watched the girl with blonde hair tied to a tight bun ride away, he smirked to himself, losing himself to fond memories of ale coursing through his veins, skin against skin, confessions and dirty words whispered against the women’s ears. 

Yes, the first girl – Lavissa, with dark hair and softest lips as he took her against the stable door. It was the first time he had sex with anyone after Arya left; he was drunk, hopeless, had waited for six months for her to come back; and then Lavissa was there, sitting a bit too close, eyes dark and mischievous as they talked over the cups of strong wine, how she had asked if maybe his tastes for women were like Renly Baratheon’s – and Gendry wasn’t sure why he snapped at that point, offering his hand – “maybe I should show m’lady her guest chambers, it’s getting late” – and a small, crooked smile, and as soon as they weren’t under curious eyes, all Gendry remembered was impatient hands feverously unlacing the front of her dress, as her wine-stained lips pressed against his. They didn’t even make it to anyone’s chambers before getting caught by the poor squire coming to take care of some lordling’s horse.

Second girl claiming to carry his baby, he couldn’t quite remember – maybe she was a redhead? All he was sure of was the her scent mixed with the spilled ale, as the girl was bent against the crammed storage room table. 

Third girl was the most unconventional – the third daughter of a Dornish salesman, who kept sending him letters about marriage. Gendry had burned them all, forgetting them like he tried to forget the things she said as she was on top of him in his bedchambers.

Fourth girl, the most recent one – Gendry was pretty sure she had been singing in the tavern he visited some moons ago, but could only remember how her blonde bun unravelled as he tugged at it, making the girl gasp. It had annoyed him deeply – the girl should’ve just shut up. He didn’t want to hear songs sung of the Hero of Winterfell.

In fact, everyone should’ve just shut up. Gendry was tired of listening to stupid highborn lords talk about the smallfolk like they were barely human, hated trying to explain another family complaining about their lord taking away their portion of the wheat or whatever it was that time, justifying the actions of selfish men who thought they were better just because the blood coursing through their veins was from another selfish shithead.

So why, why did Gendry need to be the good one? Why did he try to keep justice alive, try to care about how the people in his lands were doing, when nobody had ever cared what he wanted – he could barely remember his mom, and ever since she died all he was good for was to benefit someone else; apprentice for Tobho Mott, around to do his dirtiest work, sold to the Wall to stare at snow for the rest of his life. Then, put to work in Harrenhal for all he was good for was his hands and skills as a smith, and when he finally thought he’d find a place to call home, he was sold again – for his blood, the fucking blood that cursed his whole existence, cursed his everyday as a kid running from the gold cloaks, and now a lonely lord in his tower. He never knew peace, family – or, he had. Twice, he had the chance – both times something came in between. First time, it was his own fault – when the girl with wold blood and wild eyes asked him to be come with her, be her family, and all he could think about was how it was inappropriate, he was just a bastard, no good for a lady; and second time, as the same girl, with eyes changed but still blood coursing as wild as the animals in the deepest and darkest corners of the forest, when he though he was finally enough – but then, he had already lost her. Often, Gendry wondered how difficult things could have been, if he had done something differently those two times – it kept him up most nights.

Maybe if he had accepted Arya’s offer the first time, they would have ran away together – to Winterfell, to the direwolf den. Maybe they could have grown up, fought together, back to back, trusting, together.

Or maybe they would have died on the journey to the North – or maybe his hand would’ve been cut off for being too close with a little lady of Winter, or maybe he would’ve been sent to the Wall.

Maybe if he had put his words in another order, maybe if he had insisted, boarded on the ship, she’d be his. Maybe it would be Arya insisting she was pregnant with his babies instead of the silly girls with wish for his gold. Maybe he’d have a family, be good as himself, not just his royal blood or his blacksmith hands.

Maybes weren’t enough, he decided 8 years after she left – he stopped hoping, stopped wondering what could’ve been. Instead, he burned another letter from a hopeful lord for him to marry his daughters, and sunk to the bed where another unlucky girl waited, as he wished to not get this girl heavy with a babe as well; his reputation was getting a bit messy as his oldest son, a boy of almost 7 with bluest eyes and hair as black as the burnt coal in the forge ovens, was growing up in the courtyard of Storm’s End as Lavissa was waiting tables in the castle tavern – it didn’t help just outside the castle, in the small village, there was at least 3 little kids with the same features, all whose mothers claimed they were the bastard children of lord Baratheon himself.

Gendry wondered, if he should’ve claimed some of the children, maybe make one of them heir – but he didn’t feel like going through the trouble. He didn’t want to just barge on in one of those black-haired storm-eyed children and insist he was their father, that now it was time for them to learn to manage a castle so he’d have a proper heir – but he felt like more like laughing in the face of fates, let them have another incompetent Baratheon heir in Storm’s End, let them have their gossips of the lord who had more bastards than fingers, let them have it all – after all, it was just revenge against his own fate.

Sometimes, Gendry would be kept up all night, wondering why was the fate so cruel to him; which gods had he angered at birth? All his life, he swore he’d never be like his father who’d abandoned him and his mother, and after he knew who his father was, he was even more determined – he’d show the world that a Flea Bottom bastard had a stronger willpower than his whoremonger of a father, who got too into his cups.

But now, Gendry wondered if that was what was meant to be – when he had first arrived to Winterfell, a man of three-and-twenty, one of the oldest blacksmiths had been shocked to his core; as Gendry stood beside Arya Stark, it was like Robert and Lyanna all over again. One night, the blacksmith had shared their story, from the eyes of a northerner; Gendry felt his stomach twist and turn even then, as he thought about Arya being stolen away – as if that was possible – by the white-haired man with rubies red as blood. He told himself history was trying to compensate for his father’s losses, so he wouldn’t be forced to depart from Arya; and after she bedded him, Gendry was so consumed with love for her beauty and her spirit, he couldn’t do anything but propose.

Later, Gendry would wonder if it was life trying to be poetic; another Stark lost, as the white seafoam enveloped her ship, as Gendry drowned his grief into the bitter wine, whispered his longing against the skin of some other.

But then again, it was history playing it’s cruel little games – Baratheons and Starks never seemed to make it together, whether it was Robert and Lyanna, or even Robert and Ned; they were families whose blood would destroy each other every goddamn time, whether in love or friendship.

Gendry snarled alone in the cold chamber, sitting on the edge of the bed, head in his hands. Gendry thought about the story the blacksmith had shared with him; thought about his father never getting his revenge fully, but at least he got something to himself to remember in his deathbed – he got to watch the river turn red with blood and rubies as the man who stole Lyanna away bled. Gendry would never had that; all he could do was watch the sun bleed red into the sea, the sea that took his heart with him.

12 years after Arya’s departure, Gendry finally received the revenge dressed in red, in the form of a letter a raven was carrying. The brilliant red wax sealed shut the letter, Martell-sigil decorating the wax; first, Gendry thought it was just another invite to some dornish ball or maybe another proposal of trade, as the warm currents would bring in more exotic fish that wouldn’t reach the seas surrounding Stormlands – Gendry was in no hurry to open the letter, until the next day as he was going through his books.

_Lord Baratheon, _

_Lady Arya Stark just sailed through our port in Planky Town. She asked me to send a raven to tell you, as she was in a hurry herself. She is on her way to Storm’s End._

_Regards,_

_Prince Martell_

Gendry didn’t know when was the last time he felt anything as much as in that moment as the meaning of the words hit him; his emotions a mix of confusion, joy, anger, grief.

Arya Stark was coming home.

**Author's Note:**

> ?????? why did you read this???? why did i write this?????? anyway im sorry


End file.
